


Thirty-One

by swordliliesandebony



Series: Celebration Days [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Birthday Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11948373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Prompto has always had this problem, where he is prone to get far more excited about whatever gift he’s giving than the recipient could ever hope to be.[Pointless Promptis fluff for Noct's birthday]





	Thirty-One

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone is writing/drawing such lovely and soul-crushing stuff for Noct's birthday. I went with something disgustingly cute and heavily dependent on an ability to suspend disbelief. The setting is more or less a modified version of what me and [moonside](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonside) have been RPing for like a year now.

Prompto has always had this problem, where he is prone to get far more excited about whatever gift he’s giving than the recipient could ever hope to be. Ten years of darkness hasn’t exactly tempered him, hasn’t done a damn thing to change that fact. When he’s giving the perfunctory knock at the door frame, he’s preparing to skip into the room more than step. He doesn’t wait for Noctis to invite him in, but he doesn’t really need to, either. Prompto has, after all, spent more time than not at his bedside, seeing him through the whole recovering-from-death thing.

It’s been fucking terrible.

Visions flash before his eyes still, when he sees Noctis all holed up in the bed. They’re visions painted a deep red, a shade that Prompto wasn’t previously aware, could feel so cold. Visions of gathering a lifeless body up in his arms, and visions that go all blurry, have a great tendency of flickering in and out, of striking when he least expects them. They haven’t subsided entirely, and there’s still a cold, empty sort of tingling that rolls through his limbs and down his spine in the footsteps before he can round the corner and  _ see  _ Noct. See him comfortably asleep or lounging bored or, more often in the past couple days, arguing with a nurse or doctor in favor of his freedom.

It’s not a hospital proper he’s been relegated to, but a sort of half-cocked infirmary stationed on at a far east wing of the citadel. It wasn’t designed to hold and heal men rising from the dead so much as it was to dole out antacids and bandages. Ignis says that it housed, at one point, a physician to the royal family. That was a whole lifetime ago though. Now, it houses people lucky to be alive, in its cots and in white coats alike. A decade of darkness does a hell of a lot to change a place like this.

Prompto doesn’t focus on that though, he doesn’t let any of it get to him. He’s all sunshine and smiles today, and it’s not even forced. Noctis is awake, looking properly grumpy even. That, Prompto has learned, is a good sign. There were a lot of days when he wasn’t awake and a lot more after that where he was little more than resigned, clearly miserable. Grumpy means he’s been fighting again, all annoyed by this whole, ‘bed rest after taking a dozen or so fatal wounds’ business. Grumpy is recovery. Prompto’s smile widens and there’s a little humming under his breath when he pushes and positions the wheelchair next to Noct’s bed.

“You look way too pleased with yourself,” Noct’s words are grumpy too, though his tone isn’t entirely so. He’s sat up in bed, which is another good sign. The blankets are all askew- telltale signs of another escape attempt- and really, Noct looks more like he’s had a nap than a brush with death. It’s been  _ weeks  _ now, more of them than Prompto has properly counted, so maybe it should be expected. It’s still reassuring though, to see him in better condition, if not better spirits, day by day. Most of the machines, the beeping monitors and hissing tubes and all that mess, have been gradually removed as well. If it weren’t for the greater scene of the room, the length of Noct’s hair and the scruff around his face, Prompto might even be able to mistake the scene for  _ any  _ morning that found Noct roused before noon.

“Noct, I am exactly the right amount of pleased with myself,” he’s making a bit of a show with positioning the chair now, eyeing Noct, his position, height and bed and taking proper consideration before locking the thing in place. This is enough to grab Nocts attention and, Prompto thinks, enough to even evoke a little spark of hope in his eye, “Prompto Argentum, at your service, making  _ all  _ your birthday dreams come true.”

There’s suspicion while Noct eyes him, then eyes the window, the clock, a calendar that hasn’t been accurate since before the Citadel was one of the only things standing in the city. It’s only fair, of course, that Noct would have no concept of the date. Hell, it’s fair enough if he doesn’t even  _ care _ that it’s his birthday, Prompto thinks. Being relegated to a hospital bed, nothing but an overly enthusiastic best friend, an incredibly overworked advisor, and an increasingly exasperated shield to keep shifting company, probably doesn’t lend itself to a hell of a lot of excitement. Or a hell of a lot of concern about things like dates, even if they  _ are  _ birthdates.

“ _ All  _ of them,” Noctis repeats his words, all narrowed eyes and pointed emphasis. Prompto is ready to concede at once, but Noct is pushing himself a little bit more in bed, “so you’re actually busting me out of here?” and he asks the question with a sort of vitality, a bit of excitement that has become utterly foreign from his voice. Just that spark in his eyes, so unfamiliar by now, sends a jolt right through the center of Prompto’s chest. His smile can’t get much wider at this point, but if Prompto can get any brighter, he’s absolutely shining now.

“Damn right, I am,” his smile shines through his voice as well and Prompto swoops to tug away the scratchy little hospital blanket. Noct’s clothing is a bit of a mess here, old sweats pulled from storage, a remnant of times that were a hell of a lot easier on all of them. They fit in a baggy, ‘when you don’t eat for ten years, you go a bit lean’ sort of way. Prompto tries not to glance too much or too obviously at the curve of exposed hip or the flesh that peeks from the band, just a little lower than it has any right to. He can deal with those thoughts later. For the moment, he’s crossing the room, searching a neat pile- courtesy Ignis, no doubt- of clothing for a shirt. There  _ might  _ be something appealing about the whole battle scars and bandages look, but Prompto’s pretty sure you’re not meant to be wheeling the Chosen King, He Who Killed Death, through his palace half-naked, no matter  _ how  _ good he looks.

“Hope you’re not really expecting me to use that chair,” Noctis says with a fair bit of petulance in his voice. He’s arranged himself to sitting up with only a little bit of wincing, and he’s not having near the trouble Prompto might have anticipated in getting the shirt tugged over his head. Still, there are certain rules that he has been sworn to follow here, by doctors and by friends who admittedly know a lot more than he does about...well, just about everything, but never mind that just now. He tries to arrange his face in a proper amount of guilt all the same.

“You know how much I had to fight Iggy to make this happen? Just think of it as, like, valet or whatever.”

“Valet takes your car. This is the opposite of valet.”

“Noct, I’ve known you for, what, fifteen years? When have I ever given you the impression I have  _ any  _ idea what that actually is? I just mean, it’s luxury, or whatever,”  Noct laughs at him, shakes his head, and it’s enough that Prompto really does feel like there is a bit of light pumping back into them both. Recovery has been far from easy on Noctis, that much almost goes without saying. By any account, he should be dead. By Prompto’s own experience, the cold weight of body in his arms, he  _ was  _ dead. There are a million questions, ones none of them are sure how to answer, how to even ask. And even without the confusions, there’s been a hell of a lot of pain, from more than just a slew of new scars.

“I really don’t need this,” he protests, even as he’s scooting to the edge of the bed. Prompto almost believes him, too, but there’s a swift sort of trembling where Noct’s knees don’t quite support him and Prompto is sweeping in with a shoulder under Noct’s arm to guide him to the chair rather than the floor. There’s embarrassment there, total shame, something that Prompto absolutely pretends he doesn’t notice while he’s kicking the locks off from the wheels.

“Yeah, yeah, Mister I-Beat-Bazillion-Year-Old-Prophecies gotta show off, walking himself back to his quarters.”

“ _ King _ I-Beat-Bazillion-Year-Old-Prophecies, thank you,” Prompto is the one to laugh this time, though he can hear the tilt toward it in Noct’s breath while he’s directing them, none too gracefully, from the makeshift private room, “and what do you mean, quarters? If you’re just dragging me to a different dusty old bed…”

“Hey, stop ruining the surprise,” Prompto gives the chair a little jostle, a rough corner turn to take them down a hallway that can be described only as endless. This feels good, it feels better than Prompto has in about as long as he can remember. Noctis surviving, or undying, or whatever the hell happened, was a miracle. There’s no denying that fact. Any of them surviving was a stark beating of the odds. But seeing him struggle and suffer in that bed, it’s left Prompto feeling hollowed out, strained, drained to an extent that made it seem a hell of a lot like his world hadn’t changed at all.

“You’re the one who said it, not my fault you can’t keep a secret for thirty seconds,” Noctis is shifting in the chair when he speaks, leaning an elbow over the back and looking up at Prompto. In all, it’s making it that much harder to control, and it’s a damn awkward position, with Noct’s face very nearly buried in Prompto’s chest.

“I’ve kept a secret for, like, a week now. We put a lot of effort into this, so you’d better be grateful, got it?” Prompt’s getting them into the elevator now, something that takes a bit more careful arranging than he was entirely ready to deal with, especially with Noct making a point to turn this whole excursion as difficult on him as possible. He can’t be frustrated though, not when it’s so clearly in good fun, not when it’s making him want to laugh, maybe give his best friend a smack at the back of the head.

“Not sure it counts as gratitude if you’re forcing me.”

“It totally does. Besides, you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t like it.  _ And  _ it’s your birthday, so that’s like triple-stacked gratitude right there,” Prompto really is buzzing with excitement. There’s an almost constant fear in the back of his mind, even now, that he’s going to mess something up. Maybe Noctis will think the whole thing is dumb. Maybe he wants some time to himself, when he hasn’t had a moment of it since Talcott gathered him up all those weeks before, back in the darkness. Prompto likes to think he’s matured just a little bit in those ten years Noctis was away though, and it’s just a tiny bit easier to set his worries aside now, to focus on the positives. Noct being here, when they were all so certain he wouldn’t, is a pretty damn big positive. A birthday nobody had counted on, that’s a lot more important than whether or not the gift will go over as intended.

“Don’t see why we can’t just celebrate the way we used to,” Noctis grumbles this when they stand outside the door to their destination and it’s enough to make Prompto stop just a little bit short. It absolutely brings a flush to his face and his eyes pointedly away from Noctis, which evokes a much fuller burst of laughter, “oh my god, you’re blushing. C’mon, you got there right away, that means you were thinking it, too.”

“Was not,” Prompto snaps right back, but there’s a little crack in his voice that wins a lot more laughter. It’s a poor lie and he knows it, all vocal inconsistencies aside. Prompto hasn’t been thinking of much  _ other  _ than the way he and Noctis celebrated those couple birthdays back in high school. In honesty, they celebrated them a hell of a lot like they ‘celebrated’ any given day. All hands and tongues and carefree experimentation. Noct knows  _ exactly  _ why they can’t celebrate that way here. Maybe he doesn’t know about the painful bit of stabbing between Prompto’s ribs at the thought, but he probably doesn’t need to. It had always meant more, after all, to him. There had always been that secondary undercurrent of emotion. Hell, maybe the emotion had been the primary for Prompto all that time. It didn’t matter then though and it definitely doesn’t matter now.

“Fine, fine, I see how it is. Ten years pass and suddenly you don’t like me any more. I get it. Come on, show me what you  _ did  _ get me, then,” Noctis is joking, and that much is clear. On one hand, Prompto really does appreciate it. Everything about Noctis is like stepping into the past at this point. He pulled it all together so easily, so magnificently when they were facing the end. It had felt a hell of a lot like he had been there all along, growing and maturing at their sides. But when it comes down to it, when he’s here and he’s himself, not standing up to inescapable death? He’s still twenty years old, facing a different sort of impossible burden, clinging to whatever bit of carefree youth hasn’t slipped between his fingers. It’s heartbreaking in so many ways, but it’s refreshing in a million more. It makes Prompto feel like those ten years weren’t stolen away from either of them, in a sense.

On the other hand, though, it hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot, and Noctis must have  _ some  _ awareness of that fact. He knew how much it destroyed Prompto, having to say goodbye to the little non-relationship they had formed in their youth. He must have seen all the air go out of him, when he admitted that his engagement had been made, when he pleaded that he come along on that doomed trip. Certainly, he can guess that it still itches at the back of Prompto’s mind now. He couldn’t have missed that Prompto was still, though he never wanted to admit it in the first place, madly fucking in love with him through all those nights with the four of them on the road together.

Prompto doesn’t bring any of that up though. He simply turns them around, so he can unlock the door and pull Noctis inside. Distraction is the key here, turning Noct’s attention away from the little teases that had come so unexpectedly. There’s plenty, Prompto thinks, to be distracted by. He and Ignis and Gladio all came together to put a lot of work into such a dumb little birthday gift, one that didn’t require actually trying to track down some new material good in a world just barely crawling back to its feet.

It is, in fact, the exact opposite. The initial cleaning up of the old royal quarters was a nightmare and a half. It had been left in a sort of disarray and disrepair that was nothing short of tragic. Ardyn, from what they could see, hadn’t deigned to put his own personal touches on, but it was only a small relief. Beneath all the layers of dust and decay, the natural marks of a living space not lived in for a great many years, were memories that none of them were equipped to sort through. Remnants of Regis, of Noctis himself, from a time long before even their trip. It was a process of packing all that away, salvaging what they could, playing mix and match from other parts of the Citadel over what they couldn’t.

After that, Prompto was able to spring into his own sort of action. Ignis, bless him, knew where to find so many of Noct’s old possessions in storage. He warned that it may be a bad idea, though Prompto pushed it all away, and really, he’s glad in the end. The place is set up all too much like it belongs to a teenager. There are shelves of games and stacks of comics, figures and collectables to whatever dumb show he and Prompto decided they were going to become obsessed with at the time. There are photos, too. Ones that sit in frames, of lifetimes passed about a hundred times over, with a Noct no longer recognizable, with his father, with Ignis and Gladio and even Prompto occasionally. And there’s an album, tucked away for later, with the memories of their trip, before it all went to hell.

Noctis doesn’t react at first, not in words. He reaches back himself to put brakes on the chair, and his hands grip white-knuckled to the armrests as he hoists himself up. Prompto is afraid he’ll try to force himself too much, but Noctis leans into him immediately when he offers out an arm. There’s a moment where they stand there, Noct braced over his shoulder, Prompto’s grasp tight around his waist, and neither of them say anything. Prompto’s heart is thumping, nerves and expectation and hope all at once.

“You did all this?” Noct’s voice is quiet, and Prompto is worried for a split second. It’s a different sort of quiet, though, than the one he’s become accustomed to through those weeks of bed-bound recovery. There’s a hint of wonder, and Prompto wants to think even a bit of appreciation in those brief words. Prompto offers just a little nudge, a tilting of his head against Noct’s arm.

“Some of it. Iggy and Gladio helped cleaning and getting everything out of storage. I thought it’d be nice to feel like you’re actually coming home, though. Y’know, instead of some dusty old room. I know it’s not really-”

“-it’s perfect, Prom,” all of Prompto’s rambling is cut off. There’s something there, in the little abbreviation of his name, in the strange, slightly rough quality to Noct’s voice. It makes his throat tighten and his breath catch and there’s a moment where he forgets he needs to move too when Noct begins making his way toward the sofa. Realistically, a lot of the stuff does them little good at just this moment. Electricity is being restored to the city, but it’s inconsistent at best, and using generators to run some old video games is probably on the wrong side of allowable. But it’s something. And when they make their way over, so Noct can sit, so he can tug Prompto down beside him, it still feels like it was the right choice.

They sit there in silence while Noctis takes it all in. Not for a moment does his arm move from where it’s draped over Prompto’s shoulder, and Prompto doesn’t think of pulling it from the warm, comfortable spot around Noct’s waist. It’s a good silence It’s the kind that was always so comfortable for them when they were younger. The kind that is so vastly preferable to a silence of absence that stretched so many years now.

“Happy birthday, Noct. I’m really-” but Prompto stops the statement abruptly, given no choice in the matter. Because Noct is moving, a swift little shift, a hand on Prompto’s cheek, then cupping his head, and then their lips are together and god  _ damn  _ Prompto swears he can still recall that taste over so many years. If the right thing to do is pull away, scold, Prompto doesn’t care. He leans in, turns himself, squeezes the hand at Noct’s waist and brings one to brush back his hair. Everything considered it’s a short kiss, one that’s a little bit awkward, halting, the product of a skill unused for a solid decade. It’s the best kiss Prompto’s ever fucking had.

“I meant it, you know. What I said in the hall,” Noct’s voice is still rough and his eyes are wet. There’s a quality of uncertainty there that grabs at Prompto’s pounding heart, “I never stopped thinking about it. About us. If you’re really trying to fulfill birthday wishes…” he lets his voice trail off and his eyes are pure expectation, hope and concern and searching at Prompto’s.

“Noct. You’re the  _ king.  _ We can’t,” Prompto tries to be firm, but he’s not pulling away and Noctis isn’t either and that makes it a whole lot harder have any conviction here. A whole lot harder still, because it’s almost magnetic, the way he’s drawn to kissing Noctis again, to tugging his teeth in a light gesture at his lower lip, slipping his tongue for another brief taste.

“We couldn’t before, either, but it didn’t really stop us,” Noctis is speaking with far more assurance than Prompto had managed and it makes Prompto wonder if, just maybe, he’s been considering this conversation. He tries to drive the thought from his mind, but he can’t. He can’t look away or pull away and he can’t help but wonder.

“I’m pretty sure the world isn’t gonna be happy with you gettin’ all cozy with some Niff.”

“Good thing you’re a Lucian, then,” Noct is firm yet again, fingers tracing Prompto’s cheek, working through his hair, “I think the world can deal with it, since I went and died for them. Besides, I thought I told you, I’m done with all that stupid stuff. The borders and countries and the fighting. Enough of that. You didn’t forget, did you? Pretty sure you signed on to help.”

“Of course I didn’t forget. I’m with you, no matter what, Noct,” Prompto manages to sound just a touch indignant, enough that it seems to make Noctis smile. Still, his mind is racing, reeling, trying to grasp to some logic. Because this is impossible, this is more than impossible. This is one of those moments that scare him, that make him think he’s dreaming, has been dreaming for a really long time.

“You love me, right? I mean, you did back then,” the question gives Prompto pause, makes his heart lurch in his chest. There were understandings when they were young, when they were playing at all of this. There were words they didn’t say, even if they lived by them. There were subjects they didn’t breech. Prompto wants to pretend this is some great stretch, some little bit of arrogance, but the truth is? There was never a question as to his feelings back then. He showed them at every possible opportunity. It would have been more shocking for Noct  _ not  _ to know.

“Yeah. Obviously,” Prompto says, and it’s a bit of a shy admission, a guilty one. As if he’s been caught doing something absolutely improper, unallowed. In a way, he really has.

“Well, I still love you, too. So maybe you should stop worrying for once and just trust me. It’s my birthday so you can’t say no,” Noctis says it all quickly, firmly, leaving little room for discussion. Then again, though, Prompto doesn’t know that he  _ wants  _ to discuss it, not right now at least. His fingers are trembling against Noct’s skin cheek, his other hand near a death grip on his hip. Breathing is something that takes a bit of effort to recall just how to do. But he smiles and he nods.

“Guess you have a point. Can’t say no on your birthday,” they’re words that tremble just as much as the rest of him, but that’s okay. Noct is leaning in again, drawing Prompto closer, kissing him with more confidence, kissing him in a way that stretches and lingers and makes Prompto think that, just maybe, there are a few more impossible things Noct can manage to accomplish.


End file.
